


Whumptober 2020 - The Musketeers

by sternenblumen



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Police, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:01:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26752543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenblumen/pseuds/sternenblumen
Summary: Stories written for Whumptober 2020 in the Musketeers fandom
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952320
Comments: 31
Kudos: 62
Collections: The Musketeers Whumptober, Whumptober 2020





	1. Day 1 - Waking up restrained/Shackled

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to Whumtober 2020! This is where I will post my Musketeers fics - I'm alternating between them and Stranger Things. (Check out those fics, too, if you like! I'll link both works as a series tomorrow when I post the first ST entry.)
> 
> Alas, despite starting in September this year, I don't have very much written yet. I will keep writing throughout October and try to finish all 31 fics but I might not be posting daily and/or in the correct order. Thank you for reading in any case! And as ever, comments, kudos and all of that stuff make me happy, so please leave some!
> 
> Day 1: Waking up restrained/Shackled - Athos

His way out of the darkness was slow, painful, as it tried to drag him under again with every beat of his heart reverberating through his aching head. Athos groaned and blindly raised a hand towards the centre of the pain at the back of his head – presumably the place where the strike that had felled him had connected. But his movement was aborted as something bit into his wrist, and his eyes flew open on their own. He was greeted with darkness, and some small part that was able to think rationally already noted this with something like pleasure. It was far from the first time he had been knocked out, and he knew how much sudden light would have hurt.

Nevertheless, he wished he had some light as he raised his head and squinted down at his arms at his side. There was little to see, even as he realised that the darkness was not complete, and there was a faint glow somewhere above his head that he guessed was moonlight coming in through a window. He turned towards feeling instead, bringing together his arms close enough that the fingers of one hand could brush over the wrist of the other, and his suspicion was confirmed – the things weighing down his arms were shackles. He checked and found them attached to the floor on each side, giving him some room for movement but not a lot. Likewise, his ankles were clasped into irons bolted to the floor.

Athos sighed and let his head sink back against the wall behind him carefully. He cast his mind back to try and figure out how he had ended up in this situation. There had been a mission, he remembered, just d'Artagnan and him while Aramis and Porthos had stayed behind at the Garrison and hopefully were staying out of trouble. Instead, trouble had found Athos, obviously. They had arrived at their destination and handed over their package to the Marquis it was addressed to, he had invited them to rest and have some food before returning to Paris … And that was where his memories ended, everything beyond it fuzzy and indistinct. He frowned and looked around, then said aloud: “d'Artagnan?” He could not make out anything that might be a body, unconscious or … something else, and there was no reply. He closed his eyes and swallowed against the feeling of something grabbing his heart and squeezing. He must have escaped, he must have. The alternative did not bear thinking about.

Instead, he turned his thoughts towards a way out of his own predicament. The ache in his head had simmered down to a bearable level, and his eyes had adjusted to the little light filling what he had to assume was a cell, so he was able to make out some things, at least to some extent. He inspected the cuffs around his wrists again more closely and grunted in annoyance. They were well-made and gave him little wiggle room … He pulled his legs up to repeat the inspection there. The cuffs were tighter around his ankles, closing over his boots, and he suspected he would have bruises when they came off. Any tugging at the chains holding him fast was futile, and he scowled darkly at the restraints. He needed to get out of here, but how?

Porthos had taught all of them how to pick locks over the years – most recently, he had imparted this certain bit of knowledge on d'Artagnan, too, so Athos and Aramis had received sort of a refresher course at the same time. Even if Athos had never felt very adept at it, he was confident he could pick a lock like those on the cuffs if given enough time. Still, you needed some kind of implement, a knife or a piece of metal at the very least – no one would be able to pick a lock with bare hands, not even Porthos. Remembering that exactly for that reason, his friend had made him carry a pair of lockpicks, he straightened up but then sank back down with a helpless sound that was half laugh, half sigh. Porthos had told them to wear them in their boots as pockets were searched too frequently … Athos pulled up his right leg and examined his boot, then shook his head in despair. The cuff was too tight, preventing him from removing the boot and thus barring him from the very tool he needed to get rid of it. “There's the flaw in your system, Porthos,” he grumbled to himself. Not that he could really blame his friend for this, and his advice had proven invaluable in countless other situations.

For now, he sat back and stretched out his legs as best as he could to rest his head a bit more. Maybe he would be able to think of anything else to use later, or maybe someone would come to bring him water or food – or maybe to question him which he didn't exactly look forward to, knowing what that usually entailed. In any case, he would possibly have the chance to learn more about what was going on. And maybe d'Artagnan was out there and would be able to come for him or get help.

No, not maybe. Athos could not know it but he could believe it with his whole heart, and he did.

Because if there was one thing the last five years as a Musketeer had taught him, it was that belief in his brothers was never misplaced, and that included a certain hothead from Gascony.


	2. Day 3: Forced to knees/held at gunpoint (Aramis)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Giving up on chapter summaries, sorry, everyone...
> 
> Living on the wild side writing in real-time and posting with barely any editing *yeet* ... If you find any mistakes, you're free to keep them.

“Kneel.”

Aramis raised his head and straightened his shoulders, ignoring the muzzle of the pistol digging into his back. “Excuse me?” he asked mildly as if he hadn't understood what he was asked to do.

The man, a minor noble with delusions of grandeur, scowled and repeated more forcefully: “Kneel. That's what you do before your king every day, don't you? Scraping and slobbering for his attention like the dogs that you are.” A sneer twisted his features. “Though you're a pretty one, so you're more of a lapdog, I guess, not one of his attack dogs.”

Aramis tried to smile pleasantly though he could feel tension seeping into it. It was one thing to deal with a disgruntled and rebellious man but this one was clearly approaching madman territory. “You should give him more credit,” he said, “he's quite content with bowing, most of the time.” He raised an eyebrow. “I could indulge you with one of those, maybe?” he offered. It was risky, of course, but if he twisted just right … After all, there was only the man at his back, the others of the noble's small force still out there looking for his brothers. He needed to get free before they returned, with or without the other Musketeers. Preferably without them, though that could also mean two very different things.

In any case, he would show this man that he was anything but a lapdog.

The muzzle dug deeper into his back, and the noble snapped: “On your knees! I won't ask again.” At the same time, the heavy hand resting on Aramis' shoulder began exerting pressure, and even though he tried to resist, his legs bowed involuntarily until his knees hit the dirt.

He held his head high and stared at the man with all the scorn he could muster, which was quite a bit. “Happy now?” he asked.

The noble pursed his lips and stared hard at the kneeling man. “It'll do,” he finally said. “Stay there and don't move – I will think about what to do with you once your friends have joined you.” He got up from the box he had used as a makeshift chair and moved away, leaving Aramis' field of vision and leaving him in the company of his silent sentinel, the hard edge of the muzzle pressing against his neck now as a constant reminder not to move.

It did not take long until his knees and back began to hurt from the uncomfortable position he had been left in, but Aramis refused to show any outward signs of his discomfort. Instead, he finally broke the silence and said to his warden cheerfully: “The weather is nice these days, isn't it? Almost summer. And in a region like this, it's surely quite enjoyable!”

The man grunted and shoved his head forward with the pistol. “No talking!” he barked.

“Don't be like that. I'm just trying to pass the time until your friends come back,” Aramis said. “They seem to take their sweet time with it, don't you think? And here you are, stuck back in camp watching me kneel. Very rewarding, I assume.” Sharp pain at his temple interrupted his stream of words, and he gasped, swaying slightly. But the pistol at the back of his head had disappeared.

“I said no talking!” The guard stepped to the side, and Aramis took his chance. He threw himself to the other side, his leg shooting out and hooking behind the man's knee, and he half pulled, half kicked him. A short outcry escaped the man as he was wrenched to the side and overbalanced, following his prisoner down to the ground. Aramis breathed in sharply when he landed on the rough ground but did not waste time. He pushed himself up and turned around, launching himself at the other man. His bound hands grappled for purchase, and for a moment, he could take hold of the man's belt and one flailing arm. Then another hit clipped his temple, he was shoved to the side and rolled over, and the guard loomed above him, face dark with fury. “You insolent worm!” he spat as he grabbed Aramis' upper arms.

Aramis didn't bother replying. At least the man had lost the pistol, and while his hands were bound, he could still fight this way. He brought his hands up between them, interlocked in a double fist, and rammed them into the man's face. Something gave way under his hands, and blood began rushing out of his opponent's nose down on him. The Musketeer gave him a feral grin that would have made Porthos proud, then pulled up his knee and shoved it into the man's lower body. A grunt was his reward, and he pushed again, feeling the hold on his arms loosening. Slowly, the guard toppled off him to the side, and he wasted no time to shove him away and scrabble upright, then shuffle forward until he was directly above him. “You deserve a nap,” he told him as the man blinked up at him in a daze. Again folding both hands together in a fist, Aramis brought them down on the man's head, and with a small sound escaping the guard, his eyes rolled back in his head.

Aramis let himself slump to the side, breathing hard. He knew he needed to move, to find a knife to free himself and then his weapons, but for a moment, all he could do was blink his eyes and convince his body that no, having a rest was not in the cards for him.

He straightened up – and froze at the sound of footsteps approaching. He had hoped the noble was not close enough to hear the scuffle but today was not his day, it seemed.

“Aramis?” a voice came floating from behind him, sounding almost uncertain – and oh, he would know this deep, rolling bass everywhere. Tension seeped out of his shoulders like water, and he turned his head and grinned over his shoulder at his brother. “Porthos! So nice of you to join us!”

Porthos' worried frown only deepened, and he hastily took the remaining few steps to Aramis' side. “You alright?” he asked even as he already drew his _main gauche_ and set to work cutting Aramis' bonds. “You're hurt?” His gaze lingered on Aramis' face, and it took the marksman a moment to understand before he remembered the guard's nose breaking and the amount of blood that had rained down on him.

“Ah, not much.” Aramis shrugged and drew back his hands when Porthos released them, now free of the rope around his wrists. He rubbed them with a wince and added: “The blood's not mine. I got a hit to the head but I can see straight – so I possibly escaped a concussion, this time.”

Porthos grunted, the worry lines in his face smoothing out slightly. “Your lucky day.”

Aramis grinned, nodding. Then he looked around and frowned. “Where's Athos? d'Artagnan?”

“Athos is--” Porthos started, then stopped. “Athos is coming – and look, he's made a friend!”

Aramis looked in the direction Porthos was pointing in and had to laugh. There his friend was, striding towards them with long steps, and behind him, he was dragging the noble who was ineffectually sputtering at him in sentence fragments like “you have no right!” and “--hanged for this!” Their leader came to a stop before them and looked Aramis up and down. “Are you alright?” he asked in a clipped tone that was barely covering the worry underneath – at least for someone who had known him as long as Aramis had.

“I'm fine,” the marksman said. “You have great timing.”

Porthos snorted. “Not really,” he said. To Athos, he added: “He already took out that one before I got here.” He nodded at the guard lying insensate on the ground. The noble devolved in another bout of incomprehensible outrage.

Aramis smiled and got up laboriously, gratefully accepting Porthos' hand in support. “Still great to have you here now.” He looked around again and frowned, repeating his earlier question: “d'Artagnan?”

“I sent him off to send a message to Treville – informing the Captain of treason took precedence over a rescue mission, I'm afraid,” Athos explained. “As much as it seems the latter was not all that needed.” He nodded at Porthos. “Tie that one to his master,” he ordered, with a gesture to the unconscious guard, ignoring the protests from the noble with a great deal of experience.

Aramis shook his head, the last bit of tension evaporating and leaving him feeling wrung-out and beaten. “I bet he loved that,” he murmured and got a bark of laughter from Porthos and a half-smile from Athos in return.

“He did not,” the swordsman allowed. “But alas, duty called, and we are the King's men.”

“That we are.” Aramis nodded and then grinned at the captive noble. He playfully snapped his teeth at him and gave a short bark. “But not his lapdogs.”


	3. Day 5: On the run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continued from chapter 1: Waking up restrained
> 
> d'Artagnan struggles with the hard decision he had to make when Athos and he were attacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm kind of continuing the day 1 one ficlet with this one - it's in no way complete but at least answers the question of what happened with d'Artagnan. Hopefully, another prompt will bring a reunion and rescue :).

d'Artagnan slowed his steps and finally stopped, straining his ears to listen for any further sounds of pursuit. After a minute or so, in which he failed to hear anything significant, he slumped wearily against a tree and let his head rest against the rough bark. Bit by bit, his breath and heartbeats slowed, and he closed his eyes.

How-- Why had everything gone wrong so quickly?

Guilt was writhing in his gut like a living thing. He had run like a coward, and he had left his brother behind. How was that the behaviour worthy of a Musketeer? And still …

It was supposed to be an easy mission, and so it had been only Athos and him that had been dispatched while Aramis and Porthos had stayed behind for some special training exercises for the new recruits. d'Artagnan had been so happy that instead of being among those, he was riding out with his mentor for a real mission. And it had been smooth sailing until they had arrived at their destination and handed over their package …

The next moment, one of the Marquis' guards had surged forward, and Athos was on the floor, unconscious. With a furious cry, d'Artagnan had drawn his sword and rushed forward to engage the man who had hurt his friend – and that had spared him from suffering the same fate, as the pistol butt intended to hit his head had only struck the back of his shoulder instead, numbing his arm so he barely managed not to lose his sword. In the same instance, Athos' persistent advice had asserted itself: Head over heart. Looking back now, it felt as if time had slowed down as d'Artagnan made a lightning-fast analysis of the situation – Athos down, unconscious, the fact that they had tried taking them down with a hit to the head, so they didn't seem to intend to kill them, the number of men in the room with them, and more outside in the halls and rooms of the château – and knew what he had to do, even if it went against his very nature.

He drew his pistol with the left, and a bullet shattered the glass of the window next to him, followed by his body as he crashed through it. He landed, rolled, gained his feet – and then he was running and trying desperately not to think of Athos and what would happen to him.

He had been running since. But now it seemed as if he had finally shaken his pursuers.

d'Artagnan roughly shoved the hair out of his face, ignoring the sting of the many small cuts littering his skin from the glass pane he had jumped through. “The motto of the Musketeers: Every man for himself,” he murmured bitterly. He knew that he would have been captured if he hadn't escaped, but what if he had been able to escape with Athos later? What if they had decided to kill Athos after all? What if he returned and found Athos gone, or what if his mentor hated him for leaving him behind?

It made his head spin, and he gasped, nearly doubling over at the pain that lanced through him at the thought of losing this friendship that had become so dear to him – and he would lose Aramis and Porthos, too. If Athos was dea-- gone, if he was gone, or if he hated him, Aramis and Porthos would never be able to forgive him. He would be all alone again, like the day he had arrived in Paris, a day that felt like it had been in another lifetime.

Angrily, d'Artagnan shook his head. There was no point in indulging in self-pity. If this came to pass, it would be rightly deserved. But right now he had better things to do – he needed to find a way to send a message to Captain Treville and call for reinforcements – which would for certain include a certain sharpshooter and brawler –, find his way back to the estate, find out what had become of Athos and if he could free him himself or if he needed to wait for help.

He straightened, pulling back his shoulders and taking a deep breath before he started walking again. 

Either way, he would bring Athos home, or die trying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm honestly a bit unsure if d'Artagnan is acting OOC in this, especially since I set it before 1x08 (which had the "Head over heart" line but I just assumed Athos would have said that a few times before that ^^), i.e. when he was still at his most impulsive and "fight me"-est :/. Well, it is what it is.
> 
> I'm way behind on Whumptober (RL has been crazy) and most likely won't finish but I'll continue writing anyway - we'll see how far I get. Thanks to my Homebound Bards for the word sprints that are boosting my weekend writing a lot!


	4. Alt. prompt 9 - Memory Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos forgets something important after getting injured in a fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please do not look for medical accuracy in this fic XD (or any of my fics, especially during Whumptober, really).

“Shhh!” Aramis suddenly raised his hand, interrupting the banter between d'Artagnan and Porthos. Both of them turned around in the saddle to look at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. Behind Aramis, Athos was sitting very still on his horse, radiating concentration as he was listening for whatever Aramis might have heard.

It took another few heartbeats but then d'Artagnan heard it, too: Hoofbeats. Enough that even he could tell that it had to be several horses, and he was sure the others, with their superior experience, were also aware. They exchanged grim looks, and as one, they dug their heels into their horses' flanks to put some distance between themselves and the group of riders coming closer.

As they rode, d'Artagnan was aware that Aramis and Athos were hanging back a bit, turning around to watch for the approaching men. After a few tense minutes, a shot cracked through the air, and when d'Artagnan looked back, Aramis was stashing his spent pistol in the holder of his tack with a grimace. “They're still coming,” he called. It must have been a warning shot, d'Artagnan surmised, but it had obviously failed to deter them. He could see them now, if not clearly – five or six men, he guessed at a glance.

Athos gave a sharp whistle, and Porthos immediately reined his horse in, forcing d'Artagnan to slow down, too. “Let's greet these gentlemen properly, shall we?” their leader drawled with a wry glance when they had stopped and turned around. “It seems they are eager to make our acquaintance.”

d'Artagnan grinned, and at his side, Porthos' face lit up with eager anticipation. “We wouldn't want to be impolite,” he growled, loosening his schiavona in its sheath. Aramis was reloading the pistol he had used earlier with quick, practised movements, then drew the second from its holster. “Perish the thought,” he agreed.

They got into a line, pistols drawn and ready, and waited for their pursuers to appear. When they did, d'Artagnan let his gaze skip across them quickly, taking in as many details as possible. Six men – his initial estimate had been right – clad in dark clothes, hats pulled low, and there was the glint of metal in their hands. A moment later, it was revealed as pistols, and a first shot cracked, short and sharp like a whip. Immediately, Aramis returned fire, and the others followed him just another heartbeat later. d'Artagnan bit down hard on a scream, not allowing it past his lips, when fire streaked across his left biceps, and for a moment he swayed in the saddle. He caught himself, shaking his head sharply, and dropped his spent pistols, sliding from the horse's back and drawing his sword.

“d'Artagnan?” Aramis asked among the momentary lull, between the last echo of the shots fading away and the men crossing the last few metres to them while the Musketeers stood, ready to face them but letting them come towards them.

d'Artagnan shook his head. “A graze, I think,” he said breathlessly, pushing the pain into the back of his mind. “I'm fine.”

The medic did not argue – he knew as much as d'Artagnan that there was nothing to be done. And then the strangers were there, swords clashing, and d'Artagnan's focus narrowed to his blade, catching the oncoming man's and twisting away from his slash down towards the young Musketeer's thigh. He was vaguely aware of his brothers moving around him, of their opponents – five, one must have gone down with their shots – pressing them, at one point smoothly changing position with Aramis and taking his opponent on. The marksman's eyes sparkled with laughter as he sketched a quick bow, and d'Artagnan grinned back at him, his blood singing with the fight.

But the next moment, there was a loud thud, and at the same time, Athos called out: “Porthos!” d'Artagnan bit down on his lip, all mirth draining from his face. Suppressing the urge to look around, he redoubled his efforts, and two, three strikes later, his opponent went down with his blade buried in his chest.

He glanced back at the others and saw with horror that Porthos was down, crumbled on the ground and his face wet with blood streaming from his temple. It was mixed with relief when Aramis fell onto his knees next to his best friend and bent over him, touching his shoulder. d'Artagnan turned away and moved to help Athos finish off the last two bandits.

* * *

An hour later, they had set up camp since Aramis didn't want to move Porthos. The medic had cleaned and stitched the deep head wound, and they had made him comfortable, as much as possible on a thin bedroll on hard ground. His heart was beating strong, his breath steady and unaffected.

But he hadn't woken up yet.

d'Artagnan sat leaned back against his saddle, staring at the as of yet unlit fire they had built. His wound – actually only a shallow graze, like he had said – had been cleaned and bound by Athos while Aramis took care of Porthos, and there was nothing left to do. Nothing but wait for Porthos to wake up and try to swallow the lump of fear in his throat that rose every time he looked at his friend's unmoving form, at Aramis beside him in silent vigil, head bent and lips moving tonelessly, his crucifix held in clenched fingers. It was not the first time Porthos or any of them had had a head injury, and he remembered all those jokes about his thick skull, but he also knew that Aramis feared head wounds more than almost any other injury, saying that the brain was a most delicate organ, and if it took too much damage … He swallowed again and closed his eyes, trying to banish all those what-ifs.

When he opened his eyes again, Aramis had gotten up and was striding over towards him with determination in his step. He raised an eyebrow at him as the medic dropped down at his left and reached for the bandage around his arm. “Let me have another look at that wound,” Aramis said, his voice rough with some emotion d'Artagnan could not name.

“Athos took care of it, it's fine,” he protested. “He said it doesn't need stitches.”

Aramis pursed his lips. “Let me be the judge of that,” he replied while his nimble fingers were already unwinding the linen.

d'Artagnan threw a helpless look at Athos on the other side of the firepit. His mentor looked back, face unreadable, and just shook his head slightly. The Gascon frowned – sometimes he understood his brothers perfectly, even if he'd been with them so much shorter than the three of them had been at each other's side; and sometimes he still felt like they were speaking a language he had barely any grasp of. “Shouldn't you concentrate on taking care of Porthos?” he asked and immediately regretted it – Athos' face twitched into a grimace that told him this had been the wrong thing to say, as much as the hands on his arm suddenly stilling completely did.

He turned his head towards Aramis and opened his mouth to speak, to apologise or say something that would make it better, but Aramis shook his head sharply and continued removing the bandage, his gaze on his fingers and his face shadowed by the brim of his hat. “Let me do this much, at least,” he said softly, and this time d'Artagnan understood what wasn't being said, how helpless Aramis had to feel, with nothing more he could do to help his friend until he woke, and not knowing how he would wake, if at all. He covered Aramis' hand on his arm with his right and squeezed, giving him a nod of silent sympathy. A ghost of a smile flitted over Aramis' lips, and he turned back to checking the wound.

Movement had both their heads snapping up – Athos had surged to his feet and was at Porthos' side with a few strides. d'Artagnan held his breath as Athos knelt down and bent over the injured man, calling his name softly. There was no audible reply but they could see Porthos moving, a hand raised to reach for his head, intercepted by Athos who gently tugged it back down, murmuring something too soft to reach the other side of the small clearing.

Aramis jumped up, startling the young Musketeer, and went to join them, and d'Artagnan scrambled to follow. He knelt down a bit farther back, leaving the places directly at Porthos' side to his older brothers. He knew full well how disquieting it was to have too many faces looking down on you while you were laying on your back, so he didn't want to crowd Porthos while he was still adjusting.

“What--?” Porthos' voice was rough with pain and confusion, and he tugged again at the hand Athos was holding down.

Aramis smiled down at him and took his other hand, giving it a squeeze. “Welcome back among the living,” he said, and the teasing tone did nothing to cover the relief shining in his face.

Porthos frowned, then winced, his gaze flitting from Athos to Aramis, then meeting d'Artagnan's before it glided away, taking in their environment. “What 'appened?” he asked.

“Hit to the head,” Aramis supplied, leaning forward to peer into Porthos' eyes. “Bad enough to challenge even a skull as thick as yours.”

Porthos' gaze was skittering from one of them to the next still, and his face was screwed up in discomfort and no small amount of confusion. Then it landed on Aramis' pauldron, and he stilled, going rigid. Aramis frowned and opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Porthos spoke. “You're-you're soldiers.” He swallowed audibly. “Am I under arrest?”

And d'Artagnan felt his stomach drop into his feet.

Athos and Aramis exchanged alarmed looks. It was the medic who found his voice first, and he said gently: “No, you're not.” He withdrew his hand and motioned for Athos to do the same, straightening up and putting some distance between Porthos and him. It looked so wrong, Aramis willingly withdrawing from Porthos when he was injured, that d'Artagnan had to swallow against a new lump in his throat. Something was terribly wrong indeed …

Porthos relaxed minutely when they withdrew, but distrust was still predominant on his face. “Why're you botherin' with me, then?” he asked.

More looks were exchanged until Athos finally spoke. “Well, you got hurt, and someone had to take care of you,” he said mildly. “Do you remember what happened before you were injured?”

Porthos sat up laboriously – Aramis twitched with the need to assist him but held the careful distance – and scrunched up his face, then shook his head. “No,” he admitted.

“That can happen with head injuries,” Aramis said, his voice and face bright with an insincere nonchalance. “You'll remember in time.” He reached out as if to pat him on the shoulder but quickly held himself in check.

“What do you remember?” d'Artagnan asked, unable to be quiet any longer.

Porthos startled at the sound of his voice and took a moment to search him out, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I don' have to talk to you if I'm not arrested, soldier” he finally said, and it ached that there was no recognition in those dark eyes. d'Artagnan looked to Aramis and Athos, searching for an answer in their faces but seeing only helplessness and confusion reflected back at him.

“Do you know your name?” Athos asked. Again, Porthos' gaze went to the speaker distrustfully. “Yes,” he said after a moment of deliberation, then his frown deepened. “But … you knew it, too. You called me by it, earlier,” he said accusingly. Athos inclined his head in concession. “How do you know me?”

Aramis turned and picked up Porthos' pauldron where they had settled it on his doublet after taking them off to make him comfortable. He placed it in Porthos' lap. “Because of this,” he said simply. “You're a soldier, too, a Musketeer. You're our friend, our brother.”

Porthos stared down at the tooled leather piece with open confusion for a moment before the suspicious mask he had worn since he had woken up slid back into place. “That's a joke,” he finally said. “I'm no soldier.”

“Yes, you are,” Athos confirmed. “You've been a member of the regiment for five years now.”

“No!” Porthos jumped to his feet but stumbled, falling back down onto his backside and instead scrabbling to push himself away backwards with unsteady legs and arms. “Quit lyin' to me! I don't know you! And I'm not a soldier, or whatever a Musketeer is!”

The other three sat frozen, Aramis' arm extended towards him as he fought to suppress the urge to bridge the distance between them. He slowly lowered it in what seemed to be a Herculean effort. “It's not a lie,” he said. “But please... You're hurt. Don't move around so much, you'll make it worse.” How could it get any worse than Porthos not remembering them, not remembering who he was, d'Artagnan thought slightly hysterically. 

“We'll leave you be if you rest for a little while,” Athos suggested. “We can talk again later when you're feeling better.”

Porthos looked around their circle, everything in his posture and expression speaking of his distrust. However, his abrupt movements had made the blood drain from his face; he was almost frighteningly pale and swaying slightly where he sat. After a seemingly endless stretch of time, he finally nodded begrudgingly. “Don't come near me,” he said.

“We won't until you say it's alright,” Athos promised solemnly. He looked around to the other two and nodded at them, then jerked his head towards the other side of the clearing. d'Artagnan frowned but got to his feet obediently to follow Athos' direction. When he noticed Aramis did not follow, he stopped and turned around.

The medic had stooped and picked up a blanket from Porthos' abandoned bedroll. The injured man had retreated a few steps away to a nearby tree where he sat with his back to it, his legs drawn in and arms wrapped around them in a tight ball. Carefully, Aramis approached him as he would a dangerous animal – not his best friend, his brother – and held out the blanket to him. “Please, at least take that,” he said, worry evident in his tone, at least for his other two brothers. “It'll be more comfortable than the blank floor.”

Porthos continued to glare at him but finally nodded, and Aramis let the blanket drop near him, then turned and hurried to join the other two.

A few steps away, they huddled together. Athos turned towards their medic and asked: “Do you---” He hesitated, then began again: “Have you seen or heard of something like this before? He knows his name but beyond that--” Again, he broke off, shooting a glance towards Porthos who had at least picked up the blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders. “What can we do?”

Aramis shook his head and buried his hands in his curls, tugging at the roots, and d'Artagnan reached out to put a hand on his shoulder, hoping to lend some support. It was perhaps unfair to put all of this onto the medic's shoulders but then, he definitely had no clue how something like that could happen and how to fix it, and neither had Athos, it seemed.

“I've heard of it, yes,” Aramis finally said. He stared ahead blankly. “I've read some treatises on similar cases, where people woke up from a head injury and had lost part of their lives. Sometimes just a few hours before the injury, sometimes weeks, months.” His voice fell to a whisper as he finished: “Years.”

“If he doesn't remember being a Musketeer, doesn't remember us, even you two,” d'Artagnan said, fighting to keep his voice even. They were all reeling with this discovery. “--it really must be years. Is there anything that can be done?”

Aramis grimaced. “I-- one report on such a case said--” He shook his head and forced out: “It said that the man was hit over the head again, in the same spot. That cured it.”

Athos and d'Artagnan exchanged looks of equal dread. The image of Porthos still and pale on the ground, his face painted red by his life's blood pouring over it, was fresh in their mind, and who wanted to purposefully hurt someone they loved in that manner, even if it were to help? It was Athos who said: “And the other cases? You said you heard and read about several of them.”

The medic shrugged, shook his head, tugged at his hair again. “Some regained their memory later. By themselves, supposedly. But some … never did.” He glanced back at their injured brother, desolation in every line of his face. “If he never does--”

Athos grabbed his shoulder opposite of d'Artagnan who had not moved, had, for all intents and purposes, forgotten how to move. “Don't say that,” he said fiercely. “We don't deal in what-ifs.”

Aramis met and held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded and straightened up slightly. “You're right. We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. Thinking hard, he then added: “Well, not knowing what, exactly, we're dealing with, my advice as a medic would be to treat it like any head injury. Let him rest as much as possible, and I'd give him some of my herbs, protect him from bright lights, make sure he eats and drinks.” A flicker of doubt crossed his face. “If he lets us take care of him, that is.”

* * *

He did not.

Not really, at least – but Porthos, whether he was “their” Porthos, or this stranger Porthos who, judging from his behaviour and from what little he had said, most remembered his life in the Court of Miracles, was chief of all a survivor. No matter how little he believed them otherwise, he could not deny that he was injured and needed rest to heal. And so he conceded to his needs enough to take his bedroll when they offered it to him, accepted a water skin from them and took some soup and bread after he had seen them eat. He had found a spot as close to the fire and as far from them as possible, his back to some trees, and sat there on the bedroll, the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a blank knife close at hand, and watched them as they went through the motions of their evening routine.

“He needs to sleep,” Aramis fretted, practically vibrating with the need to take care of Porthos, beyond the little he had accepted. “If he forces himself to stay awake on top of that head injury ...” The offer of the medic's herb tonic had been summarily refused.

“Aramis,” Athos said with a sigh, giving his shoulder a squeeze, “I know how hard this is, especially for you. But we cannot do anything right now. Let's give him time.”

Aramis let his shoulders slump. “I know,” he said. “But I hate this. So much.”

“I know,” Athos repeated. He put an arm around Aramis' shoulders and steered him towards his own bedroll. “Sleep. I'll wake you for second watch.”

Aramis looked as if he wanted to protest; though to what end, d'Artagnan didn't know, and he doubted Aramis knew, either. In the end, he opened his mouth, closed it again and nodded, taking off hat and doublet, wrapping a blanket around himself and bedding down. “Wake me immediately if anything happens,” he told Athos sternly before laying down his head and closing his eyes.

“You too. Third watch,” the eldest Musketeer told the youngest, and d'Artagnan nodded reluctantly. He knew Athos was right – there was nothing they could do. Still, it felt terrible to just go to sleep while across the fire, their friend was confused and alone.

* * *

He was torn from his sleep what felt like only a few minutes later. It took a few moments until he recognised Athos' grim face in the fire's low light, and he lowered the arm he had raised instinctively in self-defence. “Athos? What is it?” he asked anxiously – both Athos' expression and the fact that he had woken him when it should have been Aramis made him think it wasn't time for his watch after all.

“Porthos is gone,” Athos said, his voice a neutral tone that sent the warning bells in d'Artagnan's head into a frenzy. 

“What? What do you mean, gone?” The Gascon scrambled to his feet, snatched up his doublet and weapon belt from the ground and quickly donned both of them.

“I mean that I just took my eyes off him for a second, and when I looked back, he wasn't there any more.” Athos looked up at him, and though his face was as controlled as ever, the icy blue eyes were full of anguish. “It was just a moment ...”

“You know how he is,” Aramis murmured as he stepped up to join them. “He's good at that. And maybe even more so right now, when his memories of the Court are the most recent he has.” d'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief that the marksman was showing no sign of blaming Athos. He was so protective of Porthos – d'Artagnan vividly recalled an arm across his chest and wooden boards digging into his back when he had dared to question Porthos' role in the death he'd been accused of – that he wouldn't have been surprised if he'd done so. But Athos was quick enough to blame himself, most of the time, and was doing so already, obviously.

“He didn't take a horse,” Aramis continued. “Nor did he take anything else, other than the knife.”

Athos nodded and straightened, drawing his shoulders back. “Then let's go after him. He may not remember it but you don't run away from your brothers,” he said with grim determination.

d'Artagnan exchanged a look with Aramis that spoke of both their worry and hurt – that Porthos had done so was almost unbelievable. But there was nothing to be done but try and bring him back. Even if he did not remember it, maybe even if he never did, they would take care of their brother. They quickly fashioned torches from some branches, then kicked some earth over the fire to smother the flames but left the rest of the camp undisturbed. Spreading out in different directions, they set about looking for tracks.

d'Artagnan was almost despairing of finding anything when Athos called them over. “Here,” he said, pointing out several broken and bent branches. Aramis breathed an audible sigh of relief and nodded. “Let's go.”

It was slow going, following tracks in a dark, unfamiliar wood, but though they lost them a few times, they always managed to find them again. While Porthos was extraordinarily good at moving quietly for a man of his size, he was less so at leaving no trace. Still, the longer they were following him, the heavier the stone in d'Artagnan' stomach got. He had really wanted to get away from them … It was little comfort that he had done so because they were essentially strangers to him.

Aramis suddenly threw out his arm, halting d'Artagnan's step. “Slope,” he hissed, and d'Artagnan gave him a thankful smile. It quickly drained away when Athos knelt down and studied some skid marks before looking up and giving them a grave nod. Porthos had gone down there, in the dark, while unsteady from a head wound.

“Careful,” Athos told them, and they both gave their assent, though d'Artagnan could see that Aramis was struggling as much as he was. Athos took the lead, and slowly, carefully, they made their way down the slope in the flickering light of their torches which were half hindrance, half help, leaving them with only one free hand to support themselves on the ground or on some trees and casting dancing shadows over the uneven ground, but still lighting enough of the way so they made it to the bottom of the decline in one piece.

However, d'Artagnan had barely reached the ground when he heard Aramis gasp aloud: “Porthos!” The medic pushed past the young Gascon and towards a dark bundle laying a little bit to the side. Exchanging a look, Athos and d'Artagnan followed and watched with bated breath as Aramis bent over their friend and carefully turned him over. Porthos' face was slack, his eyes closed, and Aramis quickly pulled off his glove with his teeth and pressed two fingers against his neck. He sighed out a long breath and said shakily: “Alive.”

The other two Musketeers exhaled in shared relief. As always, with this fact established, they fell into the familiar practice of caring for an injured brother: Athos took the torch from Aramis and found a place to anchor all three torches in the soft forest earth so that the medic would have light to work, and d'Artagnan got down to his knees next to Aramis and watched with dark, alert eyes how he checked every bone and body part for injury, ready to help in any way Aramis might need. Silence reigned over the small group, only interrupted by a low mutter on Aramis' part now and then. Finally, he sat back and took a deep breath. “He's been lucky,” he told his two friends. “No broken bones, though I'm sure that right ankle is badly twisted. The rest is just scrapes and bruises.” Still, he frowned down at the unconscious man, his expression deeply troubled. “But I'm certain he hit his head again, and ...” He trailed off, biting his lip.

Athos placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “I understand,” he said. “But remember, no what-ifs.” With a sigh, he lowered himself to the ground and ran his hands over his face tiredly. Looking up the slope they had climbed down, he shook his head. “There is no way we can get him up the incline while he is unconscious, in the dark,” he remarked. “We'll stay here until he wakes or there is enough light to see what we are doing.”

Aramis nodded, and d'Artagnan hurried to follow suit. He was sure it looked about as defeated as he felt – they had been in much tighter spots in the time he had been with the Musketeers but he did not remember feeling so crushed and uncertain of what was about to happen since his father had died. What-if scenarios were clambering for his attention despite all of his efforts not to indulge in them.

He didn't know how much time had passed when a soft, low moan made three heads snap upwards. Aramis leaned forwards, dark eyes intently on Porthos' face as if he were able to will him awake, hale and hearty. When the sound repeated, he raised a hand and carefully placed it on Porthos' shoulder. “Porthos,” he called softly. “Can you hear me?”

For a moment it seemed as if Porthos had fallen back into unconsciousness, but then his eyelids twitched and finally rose, slowly and reluctantly, as he squinted in the torchlight. Aramis twisted to block the light, giving him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Come on,” he urged him on quietly.

A small frown flitted over Porthos' face, and his eyes travelled over the faces surrounding him until they found Aramis' gaze and held it. “Ar'mis?” he mumbled blearily.

d'Artagnan held his breath. Across from him, Aramis' face lit up. “Porthos,” he replied. “You-- you know who I am?”

Porthos' frown deepened. “What?” He looked from him to d'Artagnan and Athos and back at Aramis. “Course,” he mumbled. “What're you talkin' about?”

Aramis closed his eyes and raised his face heavenwards, lips moving in a silent prayer of thanks. Meanwhile, Athos leant forwards and took one of Porthos' hands in his. “You didn't, earlier,” he explained gravely. “You had lost your memory of the last few years, of your time with the Musketeers.”

Porthos' eyes blew wide open at that, and he attempted to sit up. d'Artagnan yelped and quickly pressed him down again. “Don't!” he scolded him. “You've given us enough of a fright tonight to last a lifetime!”

The injured Musketeer frowned up at him, then turned again towards his other two brothers who were hovering worriedly. “I did?” he asked. “Sorry. Didn't want to.”

Aramis smiled, and it seemed to wipe away the lines the events of the day had drawn on his face. “It's alright,” he said, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss on Porthos' forehead. “As long as you remember who we are, and who you are, everything will be fine.”

Porthos nodded, his eyelids already fluttering with the effort it took him to keep them open. “Can't believe I've forgotten you,” he mumbled. “Can't forget part of my heart now, can I?”

d'Artagnan swallowed and saw that Aramis' and Athos' eyes were suspiciously bright, too, watching Porthos' eyes drift close and his face go slack as sleep, not unconsciousness, carried him away this time. The young Gascon took a deep breath and wiped his face, feeling wetness clinging to his fingertips. A hand found his shoulder and gave it a squeeze, and when he looked up, Athos gave him a solemn nod. He stretched out his other hand to Aramis, and the marksman accepted the invitation readily, slinging his arms around their shoulders and completing the circle over their sleeping brother, a part of their hearts returned to all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to pick this alternate prompt since I love amnesia fics - the tropier, the better!
> 
> Kinda messed up my plans for the individual prompts since I originally had planned to replace day 13 with this but ended up writing something for day 13 anyway. But then, a) day 13 is long past, and b) I won't finish all prompts anyway 🤷♀️.
> 
> In any case, I hope you enjoyed!


	5. Day 13: Delayed drowning/intubation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos takes an involuntary bath that has consequences - good thing Aramis had taken the guestroom for the night and is right there ...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that’s the last Whumptober fic in October. I’m a bit sad that it’s over and that I didn’t write more but I had fun, and I hope you did, too! (There might be more Whumptober fics in November. Or Comfortember. Or something else. The point is, I’ll keep writing 😉.)
> 
> As always, not a medical professional (nor intimately familiar with French hospital policy), so please forgive any inaccuracies!

Aramis had to suppress a smirk as Porthos closed the door of his flat behind him and turned to make his way towards the bathroom. There was no other way to describe the sound of it than as “squelching”.

“You go on ahead and sit down,” his best friend called over his shoulder before he disappeared into the bathroom.

“Sure thing,” Aramis replied easily. As he walked to the living room, his face turned serious, though. At the moment when the suspect they had been chasing had managed to topple himself and Porthos into the Seine, it hadn't been very funny. Two struggling men in frigid water and nothing they could do from the river bank … But even if Porthos was not an accomplished swimmer, his superior fighting skills had allowed him to overpower the hooligan with only some minor dunking. The guy had certainly swallowed a lot more water.

He shed his coat and holster and picked up the remote, turning on the TV and making himself comfortable. Belatedly, he snagged his coat again from where he sat on the sofa, fishing for his mobile phone, then settled back and flipped lazily through the channels while internally debating if some hot Chinese soup or pizza was better for comfort after an involuntary bath.

By the time Porthos emerged, freshly showered and in a fuzzy bathrobe, he had placed the order and immediately reported: “Food should be here in twenty minutes.”

Porthos grunted and dropped into the sofa cushions next to him. “What'd you got?”

“Chinese.” Aramis smiled. “It's not chicken soup but won ton soup might still be good for warding off a cold.”

Porthos nodded. “Sounds good.” He let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

Aramis leaned forward and looked at him critically. “How are you?” he asked. “Honestly.”

The other man opened one eye again and glanced at him sidewise. “I'm fine, 'Mis,” he replied. “You looked me over already, remember? Just tired and still cold, and y'know, bit bruised here and there. Don't fuss.”

Aramis raised his hands and sat back again, smiling. “You know me,” he said mildly. “I always fuss. Just let me know if anything changes, okay?”

“Will do,” Porthos promised. He looked at the TV and frowned. “What's that, Truffaut? You're not serious. Gimme that remote.”

Aramis let his smile widen into a grin and held up the remote in a challenge. “Come and get it.” Porthos released a low growl and ducked in his seat, tension coiling in his powerful muscles, and Aramis was quick to scramble to his feet and flee before he could throw himself at him.

* * *

Aramis opened his eyes and blinked up at the ceiling, confused for a moment before he recognised the familiar silhouettes of the furniture in Porthos' guest room. It had been late by the time they had eaten and finished the film they had agreed on in the end, so he had opted to stay over – which was something that occurred at least twice a week, and if he didn't, it was Porthos staying with him half the time. They were really living in each other's pockets …

He sighed and turned around, wrapping an arm around his cushion. It wasn't a bad thing, even if he dreaded the day Porthos would find a woman he wanted to stay with. He knew it would happen one day, and he'd long accepted the fact that it wasn't in the cards for him – he would be happy for Porthos, of course, but losing this closeness would still hurt. “Don't borrow trouble, Aramis,” he murmured to himself. So far, it hadn't happened. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

A loud thump from outside made them fly open again, and he sat up, immediately alert as he reached for his phone and gun on the night-stand. Who or what had that been? If someone was breaking into the flat, he was about to be unpleasantly surprised by not only one but two police officers. One of which had had a hard day and would be particularly bear-like about being woken up in the middle of the night.

Sliding out of the bed, he tiptoed towards the door, trying hard to make as little noise as possible while he strained his ears for more noises. There was a rough cough – whoever it was wasn't actually trying to be quiet, and it took an embarrassingly long moment for Aramis to remember that the much more likely explanation for the noises was not a burglar but the man the flat belonged to. Maybe he needed to take some time off if he was seeing criminals everywhere.

He placed his gun and the phone on the floor and opened the door. In the low light of the hallway, he could just make out a large figure which he now easily recognised as Porthos. As he watched, his friend took another stumbling step and threw out an arm to catch himself on the wall.

And in the next moment, he was falling.

“Porthos!” Aramis jumped forwards but didn't manage to catch him in time. The sound of Porthos hitting the floor reverberated jarringly through his bones. He caught himself just in time before he followed Porthos down to the floor and stumbled to the light switch. Bright light flooded the hallway when he turned it, and he squeezed his eyes shut – only for a second, though, then he sprinted back to Porthos who was on his stomach and was trying fruitlessly to get up again. His fingers scrambled on the hardwood floor without finding purchase.

Aramis fell to his knees next to his friend and grabbed his shoulder. “Porthos, what is it?” he asked urgently. “What's the matter?”

Porthos tried to reply but what came out of his mouth instead of words were a series of harsh coughs, followed by wheezing breath. His eyes were wide and desperate as he gasped for breath.

Aramis breathed in and steeled himself before he started speaking: “Porthos, I'm here, I'm here. I've got you, okay? I'll figure it out.” He grabbed one of his friend's flailing hands and squeezed, trying to be and sound as assured as possible to calm him down. “I'll turn you on your back, okay?” Without waiting for a reaction, he did just so, grabbing Porthos' shoulder and hip. The big man's body was tense but he didn't fight him. Once Aramis had turned him, he bent over him, his hands and eyes searching for an injury. There was none he could find – all that was there was the rattle of Porthos' breath in his lungs, punctured by painfully sounding coughs that had him curl up on his side, bracing his abdomen. Finally, the medic sat back and told his friend: “I'm going to call for help. Hang on, Porthos. We'll get through this. Just hang on.”

He darted back into his room and snatched his phone, already halfway back to Porthos' side by the time he had unlocked it and called the emergency number. He started speaking as soon as the operator at the other end picked up: “Aramis Herblay, police officer, 13th Arrondissement. My partner, my, my friend can't breathe.” He took one of Porthos' hands in his free one and squeezed it, urging him silently to hang on. Porthos' lips were starting to turn blue, and while his eyes were on Aramis without wavering, he could see confusion and fatigue starting to creep in and replace the fear, clouding his gaze and tugging at his eyelids. “No, his mouth is not blocked. I think it's water in his lungs. We're off duty but he fell into the Seine yesterday afternoon--” He stopped his rambling with effort to listen to the operator.

But any answer she had to that went unheard because in that moment, he felt all tension bleed out of Porthos and, looking up, just caught a last look at his friend's eyes as they slipped close. “He lost consciousness,” he told the operator, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Please send someone!” He rattled off Porthos' address and waited until she had confirmed it, then dropped the phone and bent over Porthos again, tapping his cheek. “C'mon, Porthos, don't do that!”

There was no reply, and Porthos' eyes remained stubbornly closed. The only visible sign that he was only unconscious was the sharp rasp of his breath, each intake of air a hard-won battle. Aramis placed a hand on his neck and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt the pulse there, much too fast but at least still strong and rhythmical. He pulled out his crucifix and kissed it in silent prayer, then settled down at his friend's side, ready to jump into action if his faltering breath were to cease entirely but praying with all his might that it wouldn't come to that.

* * *

The doors to the emergency room opened with a pneumatic hiss, and d'Artagnan came storming into the waiting area, Athos on his heels at a slightly slower pace. “Aramis!” their youngest called when he caught sight of him, hurrying over. “How-- What's-- How is he?” he asked as he dropped into a crouch next to Aramis' crumpled form.

Aramis clenched his fists – his hands were still trembling. “I don't know,” he replied bleakly. “They took him back a while ago and didn't tell me anything yet.”

Athos stood before the two of them, his hands deep in his coat pockets. “But he made it so far?” he asked, and Aramis marvelled again at how good their lieutenant was at keeping control in situations like this. From his tone, Athos sounded implacable, almost uncaring, but they all knew to read the signs that showed he was anything but. He was sure those hands in Athos' coat pockets were clenched into tight fists, too.

“Yes,” he hurried to reassure the others, “and I'm sure he'll be fine. He held on until the EMTs got there.” There had been a few terrifying times when it had seemed as if he'd stopped breathing but before Aramis had even started rescue breathing, he'd started up again.

Athos sat down next to Aramis, took a hand from his pocket and placed it on Aramis' shoulder in silent support, while d'Artagnan got up from his crouch and slid into the seat on Aramis' other side. The sharpshooter leaned into Athos' touch a little, unashamed of the comfort it brought him. His friends, his brothers, had only been there with him in this room for a minute, tops, but he was already feeling much calmer.

“Actually, can you tell us again what happened? Athos was a bit fuzzy on the details, he mostly knew that something happened to Porthos and you were going to the hospital with him,” d'Artagnan asked.

“Huh?” Aramis shot a sidelong glance at Athos who only raised an eyebrow and shrugged expressively. Fair enough, he supposed – to be honest, he barely remembered what he had said on the phone call himself, standing in a corner of the hallway and watching with eagle eyes what the EMTs were doing with his unconscious friend. “It must've been because of his fall into the Seine yesterday. Secondary drowning. Basically, some of the water he'd swallowed went into his lungs, and--” He broke off when a doctor entered the waiting room and looked around before he called: “Monsieur Herblay?”

Aramis was on his feet in a flash and strode over to the man, the other two at his heels. “That's me,” he told the doctor.

The doctor nodded but regarded the other two men with a raised eyebrow, and Aramis made an impatient gesture. “Everything you can tell me, you can say in front of them,” he said. “We're all the family Porthos has.”

The man looked somewhat sceptical but finally shrugged under the weight of Athos' glare, clearing his throat. “Well, I'm happy to tell you that Monsieur Vallon is doing fine, under the circumstances,” he said. “There was fluid in both lungs but we drained them without any complications. He's on the ventilator right now and should stay on it until the irritation has gone down a bit – I expect that we can wean him off by morning. There is a risk of pneumonia, of course, so we're looking at two days as an inpatient, maybe three, so we can keep an eye on that.”

Aramis blew out a relieved breath. All of this wasn't fun but it wasn't too bad. Porthos would be okay. “Can we see him?” he asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Well, he's sedated, and it's hardly visiting hours...” he began.

“We'll be quick,” d'Artagnan said, “but you must understand, getting a call in the middle of the night that something is wrong with our friend and rushing to the hospital – we just need to see him with our own eyes.” He turned the full force of his puppy dog eyes and painfully earnest expression on the doctor, and Aramis could not suppress a smirk. Maybe one day, their youngest would have learned all that Athos had to teach him, including how to glower, but until then, this combination was also surprisingly effective.

The man made a valiant attempt to resist but finally relented. “Ten minutes,” he told them strictly as he motioned for them to follow. Aramis did so, holding out a hand to d'Artagnan at his side with a grin as he passed him. The young man gleefully slapped it in a low-five, then fell into step behind him, Athos bringing up the rear.

Of course, Aramis almost regretted it immediately when the doctor opened a door and stepped aside to let them in, repeating again the ten-minute time limit. He always forgot how much he hated hospitals – and seeing people he cared about in the hospital. Porthos looked surprisingly small in the hospital bed, a stack of monitors next to him beeping their discordant rhythm, and there was the tube going into his slack mouth, secured against his cheek with some tape. He had regained some colour but was still looking grey and washed out, dark shadows beneath the fan of his eyelashes.

They approached the bed slowly, almost hesitantly. Aramis sat down in one of the straight-backed, hard plastic chairs and took Porthos' hand, squeezing it. “Hey Porthos,” he said, “that was quite an experience. Don't do that again, you hear me?”

d'Artagnan looked at him a bit strangely. “He can't,” he pointed out, “he's sedated, right?”

Aramis returned the look unapologetically. “Maybe,” he conceded, “but maybe not. The human brain is a mystery, d'Artagnan, and science can only tell us so much. I might not know if he can hear me but when I want to talk to my friend, I'm going to talk.”

d'Artagnan shrugged. “Fair enough,” he conceded, sitting down on the edge of the bed and slipping a hand in Porthos' unruly curls. Athos took the last remaining chair and Porthos' other hand. He did not speak but his thumb stroked small circles on Porthos' skin. And for a bit, they sat in silence, all of them just drinking in the sight of their fourth. He was not okay right now, not yet, but he would be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and for every kudos and comment! I'm sorry I didn't get around to reply to all comments but rest assured that I read and cherished all of them <3.


End file.
